


'Til Morning

by Ladycat



Series: Hustler'verse [5]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-03
Updated: 2011-06-03
Packaged: 2017-10-20 02:23:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tell ’em you bought me surgery. It’s what all rich old men do for their wives, inn’t?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	'Til Morning

here’s a soft hush in the background, the shushing blankness of a white-noise machine, fuzzing the edges of the room into a soft, hazy glow. Xander leans into the sound, back cushioned by a sofa worth less than he paid for it, the plush material too soft against his back but so familiar that he doesn’t bother even mentally complaining. They’ve had this sofa for years and there’s no getting rid of it, not now. 

Across from him, Dave is busily raising an eyebrow. “He does dishes?”

Xander doesn’t bother rolling his eyes, or forcing that ‘ha-ha, you’re so funny’ smile, the one that seems to get him everything he wants if people think it’s coming. He just smiles, letting soft material catch his head, muss the hair that’s a little too long, a little too grey at the temples and starting to gnarl into impossibly tight curls. He’s never had curly hair before and he doesn’t like it now, too coarse to be worth the effort.

“He likes it. I'm not really the guy to say no, you know?”

Spike does like it, although what Xander doesn’t mention is that initially, it was a form of punishment. Dave may be a long-standing friend, a golfing buddy back when Xander thought he’d get more business done if he just sucked it up and played a few rounds, growing into something as deep and meaningful as his friendship with Willow, white as a winter’s snow-storm and glowingly happy with her latest grandchild shows promise of following in her granddam’s footsteps—but he doesn’t need to know about that. He guesses, Xander’s sure, with bright eyes that catch nuances Xander’s long-ago assimilated, but he never says anything and Xander never needs to.

“Now if only my wife would like washing dishes,” Dave jokes. There’s a question lurking around the edges of the banter, wary and at odds with the gentle tone. Dave doesn’t ask it, though; there’s a reason he’s probably Xander’s closest friend outside of the Scoobies. He’s learned how to make silence work for him.

Smiling, Xander stretches an arm across the back. “He likes giving me my space,” he says, then lets his gaze turn wicked, “and he doesn’t like being next to me right after mexican.”

Dave laughs, but it’s eclipsed by a blister of words Xander knows by heart, too distant to let Dave share in their meaning, although the tone’s damned clear enough. The constant hush ends, resolving itself into the steady stream of water from a faucet just seconds before it ends, Spike himself appearing moments after. He’s dressed casually, far more so than anyone outside their closest is used to seeing: ratty jeans with no socks, the frayed ends trailing behind him like a lady’s train, a soft black sweater that ends just beneath a pointed chin, bringing out the startling, incandescent blue of his eyes.

Spike kneels down at Xander’s feet first, fussing with something Dave can’t see. It’s an effort not to reach out, not to touch hair that curls in ways Xander’s never will again, soft and silken against greedy fingers, which is why Spike does it. There’s nothing down there to distract him, no job he has to see to, just the quiet tease of a man who knows his lover well.

Dave shakes his head as Spike rises up, twining himself around Xander the same way Joyce—their Russian—twines himself around Dave whenever he happens by. Joyce is upstairs now, scared away by the scent of cigars and chatter she knows better than to interrupt. She’ll come back later, carefully nosing against Xander’s leg, then Spike’s, verifying each is smoke-free and untouched before welcoming them back into her domain. “You two aren’t like anyone else I know.”

“Be boring, if we were. Spice of life, and all.” Spike’s good at this, much better than Xander, and takes over as seamlessly as he takes over everything else. Xander transfers the weight of his head from the sofa to Spike’s strong, rounded shoulder and doesn’t pay much attention. Wine affects him more strongly, lately, and he just wants to float against the sound of two friends conversing, only occasionally requiring his input.

Later, when Dave has departed back to his wife, Xander doesn’t move and Spike does nothing but tighten his arms, letting Xander stay. “He noticed, I think. People are starting to.”

“Tell ’em you bought me surgery. It’s what all rich old men do for their wives, inn't?”

The answer’s pert, but Spike’s hand is busily stroking Xander’s sweater, sweeping across the lines of his collarbone to find Xander’s heart and staying there, rubbing against cashmere like it’s the fabric that has his attention. Xander settles. Some conversations need the right time and place, and they fight enough that he can wait for one of those.

Fighting always makes him hot, makes him young enough to push Spike down by the silver choker he never takes off, makes him want to hurt the way he knows Spike wants, the way  _he_  wants. Makes him brave.

He’s not now, surrounded by the trappings of a wealthy, comfortable life and a lover who still asserts no wants unless forced to. One who is still as young as he has been for a century or more, while Xander creaks into middle age, regrets like poppies blooming behind him, waving in bright colors from the corner of his eye and never as bad as he thinks upon confrontation; Spike is a talented gardener.

Spike kisses his cheek, soft lips against stubble he’s never complained about. “C’mon. There’s laundry to be put away.”

Xander is drawn to his feet, drawn up stairs to where two baskets wait, messily heaped with clothes. There are a riot of colors and fabrics, melding under their hands as they methodically remove and shake each item, folding them neatly into piles without asking which belongs to whom or what place they should be put. They know. Xander knows, no matter that it’s Spike who arranged the system, Spike who maintains the home that Xander’s bought and paid for and doesn’t care a damn about.

“You never used to be this good at organizing,” Xander says as they settle into bed, cross that it’s so quiet. Sycamores have been replaced with willows, their heavy-hanging branches throwing shadows that dance and sway through the open window. “I mean, back when you were trying to kill us.”

Spike smiles and says nothing. There’s no way to answer that, and Xander knows he’s being humored, knows he’s being crotchety for no reason at all, and doesn’t mind. Because when Spike leans in to kiss him there’s no hint of subservience, no butler-like care, just wine sweet and sticky against lips and tongue that are his and his alone, because they choose to be.

He can be grumpy more in the morning.


End file.
